Participants:
| Scene Title | Alms |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard caves and shows up on the Lighthouse stoop early one morning in search of breakfast and a place to sleep. Brian provides as dickishly as is humanly possible. Turns out they both have a few issues to work around these days. |
| Date | March 25, 2009 |
From the outside, the Lighthouse looks as if it has had better days. The massive tower rising out of the house has fallen from its former glory. It is no longer a shining beacon, guiding wayward ships in from the lost harbor — though some may argue its purpose now is even more admirable. In its current state, the lighthouse seems to be in disrepair. Though upon closer inspection it all seems to be in the details. The paint has chipped away, leaving a discolored patterns of grays, whites, off-whites, and more grays. The occasional graffitti tag is here or there along the large building. One would notice that the doors, the windows, and the integrity of the building are all quite sound and newly repaired. The lighthouse has just been left with the look of abandonement.
Inside is a completely different story. Upon entering the main door, one will find a completely furnished and cozy arrangement. A spacious living room lined with two large blue sofa's, facing each other, a coffee table between them and several large bean bag chairs have been planted in the room. Shelves have been hung on the wall to display various different pictures of the occupants. A large bookcase is against the wall, holding a large variety of books from Dr.Seuss to the Bible, and even a copy of the Qur'an. The living room is focused on the fireplace a small black fence encloses it, the wood stocked on the bricks in front of it.
Connected to the living room is a kitchen, complete with a large rectangular table capable of seating around four on each long side and two on each end. A sink, a stove, an oven, a microwave and two refrigerators complete the look. Several low and overhead cabinets line the kitchen. At the edge of the kitchen are a pair of doors, one leading to a bedroom and the other, which has a padlock on it, leads to the basement.
At the back of the living room a glass sliding door leads out into the backyard of the Lighthouse, but just before it a staircase leads to the upper levels of the structure.
Theoretically, most of the people who show up on The Lighthouse's doorstep are homeless, hungry, in need of help, and under the age of 18. Having fulfilled three out of four of these requirements, the man who stands on the stoop now is in his forties at the very least, grey grey grey in dress, coloring, and manner. His suit is worn in nearly to the point of being worn out under the shabby black of his coat. The rest of him looks much the same.
The age thing might be the barrier that's keeping him from actually knocking. Pride. That or he's too drunk and/or stoned to remember what you're supposed to do when you encounter a door.
The smell of biscuits and bacon wafts through the windows around the entrance of the Lighthouse, though there is not much noise to be made. The kids have yet to get up, and Brian is in his gradual getting over hating the world in the morning routine. There is only one of him in the house right now, though there are undoubtedly more elsewhere, the young man is currently cooking. The soft sizzle of the pan the only sound to be made, that is over quiet murmurs under Brian's breath about whatever or whoever woke him up.
On the tail end of making breakfast, Brian is in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Dark blue slippers on his feet, he is just going through the motions while no one else is awake. Mornings suck.
It smells good. Breakfast always does. Under current conditions though, Brian could be the greatest maker of bacon and biscuits in the universe. Never having gone to sleep, the morning doesn't seem all that morning-like to Deckard despite the glance of a too-orange sun off the black of his sunglasses while he stands there and tries to convince himself to do something.
Eventually, finally, there's a single thump of contact at the door, where the flat-lined brace of his forehead bumps forward into the wood and stays there. His right hand lifts beside it to finish with a one-two knock, only to falter when his eyes focus on the knife on his belt. A few chips of persistent dry blood still mottle the grip. There is some hasty shuffling accordingly where the knife is transferred into tatty backpack slung over his shoulder and his belt is scrubbed at.
The door creeks open. Then fully opens to admit Brian filling the doorframe. Dully staring at the other man who, surprise surprise, looks like shit. Though it's not really a big deal when Deckard looks like he just got hammered, either by booze or by people's angry fists. It's one of those facts of life. The sun rises, and Deckard's an idiot.
Brian might be happier to see the older man if it were perhaps a few hours later in the day. But it's not so, "Where've you been?" Is the indifferent question that is offered. Though he doesn't hang around for an answer, turning his back he walks in, expecting Deckard to follow him. "Lock it behind you."
Having finished in the nick of time, Deckard is back to staring hazily at the door in time to see it open with Brian behind it. And yeah. He looks like shit. Fortunately he only smells like whiskey and wet cardboard, if he seems fairly sober at the moment. No mumbling, staggering, off-balance confusion as to how he got here. Just a grudging, hangdog nod when he leans to step in through the door after Fulk.
"I dunno. Around. In jail." He shrugs a shoulder, back turned while he fumbles the lock over behind him. Click. His sunglasses are retained despite the absence of sun up's glare in here, and takes his time in moving away from the door to peer aroun the entranceway instead.
"Yeah I heard about that. First you got put away by Logan and then the cops. Bad month." Brian says flatly as he returns to the kitchen, putting a few paper towels over a plate. "Are you okay? No one's after you, are they?" He asks with a little frown, shooting Flint a look. Though human interaction usually pulls him out of his morning hate, it takes a little while until he's fully human being once again.
"Bad month," Deckard agrees, the rough grate of his voice kept low and quiet as he follows. He doesn't need a doctorate to assume all or most of the kids hidden away in this place are still asleep. "I'm okay." Not great or good, but. Arguably okay in the sense that he's alive and has his eye back and whatever else. "I dunno. I don't think so." Vague honesty levers down into the slide of his pack down off his shoulder, onto the floor at his feet. There's an awkward pause, filled with much looking down at the floor, wall, and ceiling while he stands there like a weathered old fence post, way too conspicuous to vanish like he might wish he could. "I was hoping maybe I could crash here for a few days."
"There's a cot in the basement." Brian says as he ushers the bacon off the pan onto the plate. "You can stay as long as you need. No drinking up here, no coming in here drunk when the kids are awake, no smoking inside, no cursing…" Brian looks up at the ceiling as if trying to figure out what other rules he needs to lay out for his elder. "And don't be a bad influence on the kids if you're going to be around here. If you're gonna be around the kids, I expect you to take the responsibility of molding their little minds seriously.
Because Brian's the best at that.
The bacon is slid off to the side, bacon, biscuits, and fruit. No eggs. Brian hates eggs, so no one else in the house eats eggs. Except when Kameron is cooking and then it's just sad. "Oh and if you could, there's some guns that need fixing down stairs, while you're here. Breakfast?"
No drinking, no being drunk, no smoking inside, no cursing, no being a bad influence. There's a mild sigh somewhere through the course of the list — the ghost of an unspoken, 'I know.' Aaand yet. It still bears being said, and Deckard doesn't argue. He nods instead, overcoat dropped down off his shoulders so that he can set to folding it over the crook of his left arm while he watches the end of the cooking process.
"I'll try not to mold anything while I'm here." For better or worse. That's how accidents happen. "Yeah." Dear God, yes to breakfast. Saved from begging on that account, he nods again in what might pass for responsible acceptance of the offer and glances in the direction of the basement. "I'll take a look at them."
"Milk's in the fridge if you want some." Brian says, yanking a thumb over his shoulder. Putting a few biscuits, a banana, and a small group of grapes accompanied by five pieces of bacon the plate is taken over to the table and placed at the far end for Deckard. "Go ahead." And thus, Brian has to go back to cooking because Deckard just took some poor child's meal.
"So…" He humms as he goes to put a few more pieces of bacon onto the pan. "How was jail?" He sounds much more chipper now, and the question is asked as if it was a day at the park rather than a day behind bars. "Make any friends?"
Milk would be good. While Brian moves for the table with the plate, Deckard moves for the fridge. He doesn't have to ask where the glasses are, but goes to the right cabinet as if he's lived here for years. Some clinking and pouring later, he tips the carton up and deposits it back where it belongs. Then to the table. And hot food, holy shit.
It's a little retarded how he just sits there for a few seconds and stares at it like he doesn't know where to start, hands hovering at the plate's edge. Save the bacon for last or dive right in? It doesn't take him too long to decide on the latter. Ronch ronch ronch. "I don't remember." He can do the casual conversation thing too, though there's an inevitable underlying tension on the subject of his brain having been wiped.
"Oh." Brian murmurs back, continuing to cook. "Elvis threw a bottle at my face." He remarks dryly. "I think I might quit the group. Elvis is an idiot and throws bottles at my faces, and..I mean I died for them a bunch of times and I get bottles thrown at my faces." He makes it sound like it's an inconvenience. "After this whole Prison thing, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna quit." The young man states looking over his shoulder to see how Deckard feels about this idea.
Deckard slows in his chewing when Brian starts talking again, dirt and grit-darkened right hand still holding the uneaten half of his first piece of bacon like he's afraid one of the kids might run in and snatch it from him if he sets it down. Molars ground to an eventual halt, he swallows and reaches for the milk to wash it down. The transfer of clean white to the grizzled bristle over his upper lip is almost as inevitable as unease over memory erasure.
"What Prison thing?" Brian capitalized it, so he does too, only to realize belatedly that he might have missed the point, here. Bacon still held over his plate and brows knit, he turns his head enough to squint at the younger man at the stove. "Quit Phoenix?"
"Yeah. I mean we saved the world and all, but it was kind of a fluke. How many times is the world going to need saving honestly? What the world needs now is good people sending a good message. And I mean.. We never really did that.. very well." He gives a shrug. "Plus there's people like Elvis, who I have no idea why she's even in Phoenix. She just wants to kill people, and probably torture cute little puppies." He looks over, raising a brow. Did he just say too much at Deckard again? Oh well.
"Helena and Alex. After we get them out. Oh, by the way. I have an evil twin that works for 'the Company'. I guess they brainwashed me or something which sucks I guess, but what am I going to do about it?" More bacon is taken off the pan and the burners are turned off.
Having deduced that Brian will likely keep talking long enough for him to eat the second half of this piece of bacon, Deckard pushes it into his mouth, reaches for the banana, hesitates, and picks up another bacon strip instead. "Teo's definition of 'trustworthy' has a tendency to screw his other allies over." He doesn't bother to finish chewing this time, voice muffled around food that he at least has the good grace to lift a dirty hand to cover. Then he swallows and clears his throat. It's not an attractive sound.
"That or he's less interested than he likes to think he is and doesn't care who gets fucked as long as the job gets done and he has resources left over to make amends." Not exactly a more flattering alternative. He takes another bite. "Helena's in prison and people throwing bottles at each other." Judgment weighs quiet in the span he spends chewing and staring dimly down at his plate. "Sorry you have an evil twin."
With his own plate, Brian returns to the table, setting it down and taking a seat, he hunkers over his own plate. Got to defend it from wall climbing children and what not. "Whatever, we should start our own group. We could be Dragon. Or Unicorn." The young man gives a light hum of appreciation at the new group of vigilantes codename 'Unicorn'. His eyes raise up to his plate and he gives a tsk. Promptly getting up he goes to get a cup and some milk before returning.
"I told you, no cursing." Brian says when Deckard talks about who Teo cares about fucking or whatever. "I'll help them with this thing. But I have my own thing to run, my own kids to look after. Why would I put more energy and sacrifice into a group when I get bottles thrown in my face by retards. She probably didn't even know where she was. I swear, she turns every meeting she goes to into a circus." A little shrug and then he starts to eat.
"It's okay."
"Chimera sounds cooler." Likely not 100% listening with the whole warm meal thing to distract him, Deckard's eating at a more normal pace, having quickly gotten over the idea that he should drag it out or something. It still tastes like the best breakfast ever. Even with no eggs.
"I didn't curse. …Did I?" Promising. Brow furrowed while he tries to track back through what he just said, he succeeds only in arriving at the conclusion that behaving himself hard enough to stay here is going to be kind of a pain in the ass.
"You could just shove her off a bridge or something once it's over. If she's that big of a risk, you'd almost be doing the world a favor. I'm probably going to—" kill Felix, whenever he gets a chance. The extra two words are swallowed down with ground up bacon, realization wisely timed to mask certain murderous proclivities of late. "…Doesn't sound okay." Subject change!
"Chimera sounds like a club owned by wannabe hip old people who can't get anyone to come to their club. So, no, it doesn't sound cooler." A little frown pulls on his lips as the inevitable thumping starts upstairs. The horde has been awakened. "Listen. You're gonna have to take your breakfast downstairs and finish. You smell like shipoop. And you look like you've been hanging in a painting van all day offering kids candy." Brian takes another snap of his bacon. "We can go out shopping later and get you some clothes that don't smell of alcohol and semjuice." He ends abruptly a lip pulling back.
"Whatever. I'll wipe my hands of Phoenix, and who cares what Elvis screws up next." He gives a dip of his shoulders, whatever Deckard was probably going to do is lost in the haste of getting the ugly man out of the kitchen before the children arrive. Reaching into his pocket, he yanks out a key chain. "Here. There's a bathroom down there. When I get the kids to their lessons and chores I'll come down and take you out for your fabulous makeover."
"Wha—" No it doesn't. On the verge of actual defensive annoyance over his Chimera proposal, Deckard doesn't flinch at being informed that he smells and looks like a child molester. The scowl Brian gets in return isn't particularly appreciative, but he's not so out of it that he doesn't realize it's probably true. "I could really use a shower," the only outward concession he's willing to make for the short term, he nudges fruit over onto his plate with bacon and biscuit and scrapes back his chair.
Backpack hoisted back up onto his shoulder, he leans to hook a finger through the key chain and an arm back under his coat before he collects plate and glass. Then he's moving for the door, one heel dragging him to a stop again before he can get all the way out of the kitchen. Sunglasses tipped briefly up at the ceiling and all the little bony feet running around up there, the look he casts back at Brian is indirect. Avoiding again. "Listen, I know this is — I know how it looks. And you don't owe me anything. Least of all now, but—" Ok, he's procrastinating. "Maybe…don't tell anyone I showed up like this.”
"Your dumb secrets that nobody cares about are safe with me." Brian says happily, before sliding out of his chair. A few plates are taken out of the cupboards before Brian makes a beeline for his room. Time to replicate, get his copies dressed and start another day in the Lighthouse.
Deckard's answer for that is a gruff snort, and with one last glance upward to make sure he hasn't dawdled enough that he's going to cross paths with any evil midgets on the way to the basement, he's off.
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